Angel.

This is The Angel. It's a Sam Smiths pub in the centre of leeds, squirreled away down a side alley, in the premises of a former jewellers.

I have been going here on a regular basis, for the last 4-5 years.

Before the smoking ban: when one couldn't even see the wheezy hobos, racists and general nutbags in the downstairs (upstairs was fine, Darwin's theory of 'Nuttervolution' was in full effect, only the least addled minds making it up the steps) room for the acrid fug of roll-up smoke that would plume into your face, as you entered.

After the ban; Which has not really changed the clientèle, just displaced them to the doorway... Where - in shifts - they lean against the 'No Smoking In This Doorway' sign, furiously chaining economy tobacco products, unabashed by rain, sleet, snow, plagues of badgers, nuclear holocaust or just by the fact their habit has transformed them* into barely sentient, yellowing, wheezy strips of jerky.

Anyway, I went here today for a few quiet Diesels (Snakebite and black; which in The Angel is classed as a cocktail) and the odd cherry beer with friends.

It's a brilliant pub, the uneven fruitbasket to sane ratio, within the drinkers, means no two nights are ever the same, I have been treated to impromptu magic shows, ballroom danced with people who sell the big issue and been offered more drugs than are brought out at a Mothers Day lunch round the Katonas.

So, yeah:

That's The Angel... Chin, chin.

P.S. It's not sepia in real life.

* I include myself in this.